Chapter Text
“I’ve decided to take up dancing lessons,” John spoke quickly, his eyes not looking up at his fiancé who was standing across from him in their kitchen - he didn’t want her to catch a glimpse of the rosy red that was creeping up his neck.
John Watson had always been miserable at dancing, especially when compared to Mary who looked positively perfect as she wove her way naturally across the dancefloor, allowing the music to guide her. In the beginning, she had begged John to come out dancing however after the embarrassment of the first few times, it seemed they had given up his attempts in favour of watching his soon to be wife shake her hips while he absentmindedly tapped his feet under the table and nursed a few pints. Now, however, what with their wedding fast approaching in the upcoming months, John had been overcome with the feeling of complete dread at the thought of having to dance in front of all of his friends without any previous practice. Which is why, after much deliberation, John had decided upon a private dance instructor (god forbid if he had to do public dancing lessons in front of others) and had finally gotten round to telling Mary.
“Dancing lessons?!” Mary’s face was a mix of shock and amusement, and her incredulous tone did nothing to quell the ever growing shade of crimson that was now covering his cheeks and neck.
“Mary,” John scolded, feeling mortified. “See, this is why I wasn’t going to tell you in the first place! You—“
“Okay!” Mary held her hands up in surrender, her eyebrows raised. “Sorry, love, I’ll be serious from now on.”
John sighed, looking up at his wife with a frown of disbelief which prompted Mary to burst into a fit of giggles. The thought of John taking dancing lessons seemed to be too much for Mary to imagine.
“I’m doing this for you!” John huffed, becoming more and more irate as the minutes wore on. “I’m doing this so I don’t look like a complete plant pot at our wedding!”
Mary stifled another giggle, smiling at John, before she placed a hand on his cheek and planted a kiss on his lips. “Of course I know you’re doing it for me,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. “I think it’s a lovely idea. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” John answered, still feeling slightly embarrassed – he found himself staring into his cup of tea with much intensity to avoid looking at his fiancé. “I found someone online who seems a bit okay – he’s got plenty of positive reviews and quite reasonably priced.”
Silence.
John looked up at Mary and found her smirking into her cup of tea before she sat it down on the counter and spat out “He?”
“W-well yes, why not?” John was suddenly defensive.
“Oh my, this I’ve got to see,” she quipped, giggling. “My John having dancing lessons with a man? Just make sure he buys you a drink after, love!”
Rolling his eyes, John walked out of the kitchen into the living room and sat down at his laptop which was sitting left open on the table with an article on hyperbilirubinemia in infants. He sat down to it and attempted to ignore Mary by involving himself in the words on the screen in front of him.
Neonatal hyperbilirubinemia, defined as a total serum bilirubin level above 5 mg per …
He could hear Mary coming up behind him.
… up to 60 percent of term newborns have clinical jaundice in the first week of life …
She placed her arms around him from behind. Ignore her, John.
… However, hyperbilirubinemia in the newborn period can be associated with severe illnesses such as hemolytic disease …
It was only when she began to sway from side to side with him in her arms, forcing him to move with her, and softly trilling their song in his ear that he eventually had to give in and force out a laugh.
“I’m a fool for that shake in your thighs … I’m a fool for that sound in your sighs …” she crooned in his ear, arms around him gently but firmly. “I’m a fool for your belly …” she moved one arm down to John’s belly, which had, to his dismay, grown slightly (too many takeaways mixed with a lack of cycling to work due to weather). “Baby, I’m a fool for your love …”
At the end of her soft, slightly off key rendition of the song, she turned him to face her. He knew the jig was up and he would have to give in to this wretched woman, but he kept his lips pursed and forehead in a frown of mock anger. Mary then placed a gentle kiss on the side of John’s cheek, which turned into more kisses until she was eventually planting wet, sloppy ones all over John’s face. He couldn’t help but let out a laugh as she continued her assault.
“Right, you!” he said, laughing as he grabbed onto Mary’s waist and pulled her down onto his lap, tickling her sides and assaulting her with kisses in the same way she did to him just moments prior.
Mary laughed freely, before wheezing out a “Please stop!”
John let up, allowing Mary to straighten herself so she was sitting cradled in his lap, arms looped around his neck – both were smiling benignly at each other, all thoughts of their near-fight gone.
“You’re not coming with me,” John said firmly yet kindly. “But maybe once I’ve got some practice I might let you.”
“It’s a deal,” Mary winked, shaking his hand.
--
John was bloody nervous. He had walked to the dance studio from his work after he had finished at 4pm – it was now 4:24 and he knew his dance instructor would be inside waiting for him to come in at 4:30. He had decided to keep the fact he was practicing for his wedding to himself because all he could imagine was going in there and coming out mortified after the instructor told him he was a lost cause and there was no point in him continuing with their lessons.
The studio was obviously going to be upstairs, with the only indication of a studio existing being the metal door which had “Holmes Dance Studio” spray painted across the front in black ink; it was squeezed between a liquor store and an Italian restaurant. John walked up to the door and his hand hovered over the handle, before he took a deep breath and walked inside.
He had entered into a small concrete stairwell which had one set of stairs directly in front of him leading up to a wooden door; this had another sign stating he was indeed entering “Holmes Dance Studio”.
Before John got to the top of the stairs, he could hear the sound of soft classical music coming from behind it and although John could not name the piece, or the composer, it stirred some resemblance in his mind. John glanced at his watch again: 4:32pm Shit, he thought, late. And with only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door to the studio and entered.
Sherlock Holmes was sitting at the piano which was sitting in the corner at the top of the studios, his eyes closed as he took in the music that was playing over the speakers. His face rose to the heavens as the violin swelled to a crescendo, his face conveying something akin to sadness if it were not for the smile playing at his thin lips. He kept his eyes closed as the music continued, rising and falling with a depth John couldn’t understand.
John watched in silence, not wanting to disturb the man in front of him straight away. He stood by the door and allowed himself to take in the music, although somehow feeling as though he were missing what the strange man across from him was experiencing.
And as the music echoed across the studio with a final haunting note, Sherlock opened his eyes to watch John coolly, speaking out across the room to him.
“Benjamin Britten,” his low voice was commanding and John stood in silence, watching the man as he rose from the piano and began to walk over to where John was, passing the countless mirrors which were all over the walls. “He conducted that piece with the English Chamber Orchestra. You missed the first 13 minutes.”
Sherlock was tall, John noted, and he had an intensity about him that made John curious to talk to him to try and unravel the mystery he seemed to hold. He had dark hair which was slicked back across his head stylishly, and a jawline that would rival George Clooney. He was wearing a fitted light blue collared shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of tailored slacks, all of which was finished off with some dark, pinstripe braces. He was stylish and tall and handsome and everything John felt that he wasn’t.
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said kindly, extending his hand, his eyes staring intensely into John‘s.
“John Watson,” John finally answered, shaking his soft hand firmly.
“So you want to learn to dance?” Sherlock asked, turning on his heel and quickly moving across to the middle of the studio.
John followed awkwardly, not knowing where to place his jacket, so he just kept it on him, feeling slightly warm, but suffering through it.
“Yeah, uh—“ John didn’t know where to start. “I’m a bit shit, to be honest.” He answered truthfully.
Sherlock’s face didn’t change from deep thought, his eyes roving across John’s body and face, dissecting him bit by bit.
“Yes, well, I can already see that – look at your shoulders,” he spoke, almost to himself more than anything. “And your shoes … no-no-no, they’ll have to go.”
“Excuse me?” John didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – of course it would turn out exactly the way he expected: obviously this man was a bit of an arrogant dickhead and he was going to be told to leave the first chance Sherlock got.
“Take off your jacket and let me have a look at you properly,” Sherlock commanded, moving up to John and nearly ripping his jacket off him in a flurry.
John allowed his jacket to be pulled from him, feeling too overwhelmed to do anything else. He felt out of place in his usual cardigan/shirt/jeans combo next to Posh Boy Sherlock Holmes, but soon forgot when he felt Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders from behind him.
The man twisted John around to face him, still grasping firmly onto his shoulders, before he began to shake him violently, back and forth and side to side.
“Oi, what the bloody hell are you playing at, mate?” John wrenched himself free from Sherlock and stepped back, feeling slightly dizzy, but ready to defend himself if need be.
“You need to loosen up, John.” Sherlock stated calmly, as if viciously shaking a man you’ve only known for a few minutes was the most normal thing in the world. “You’re never going to be able to achieve it on your own, so I am going to help you.”
“Loosen up …?” John had to laugh. “And what’s that got to do with dancing at all?”
“You’re uptight in your shoulders, particularly your left, previous injury, I bet. And your shoes are exacerbating the problem. You need to loosen up before we try anything - my form of teaching will not work if you’re not completely open to me.”
“Right …” John frowned.
“John, I want you to try something for me,” Sherlock spoke, kinder this time, his eyes softening as they watched John’s concerned face. “I’m not going to harm you or shake you about like I did earlier - I just need you to trust me.”
There was something in Sherlock’s voice that, against everything John stood for, made him believe in this man and made him say, “Okay.”
“Close your eyes –“
John hesitantly closed his eyes.
“- and stay where you are.”
John heard Sherlock’s footsteps across the wooden floor and there was a small click before soft notes of piano began playing out of the speakers, reverberating through the room and in turn, through John as he stood in silence, awaiting Sherlock’s next move.
“Keep your eyes closed,” John heard Sherlock murmur – his voice seemed close. “Now breathe and relax into the music.”
John made a conscious effort to soften the frown on his face as he focused on the tender music echoing through the studio, allowing it to seep into his muscles and skin. He made an effort not to try and think about where Sherlock might be in the room, only allowing his voice to guide him. He purposely attempted to relax his shoulders, allowing a small amount of tension to drop from them.
“Okay,” Sherlock whispered, his voice now enticingly close to John’s ear. “I’m going to lead you now. Just feel the music, follow me, and remember to relax. You may open your eyes when you are ready.”
Sherlock was in front of John and he gently took John’s right hand, placing it on Sherlock’s small waist which felt surprisingly muscular underneath his clothes (stop thinking about that, John) – he then took John’s hand in his right, placed his left hand on John’s shoulder and moved in close enough that John could smell his sweet scent. And somehow, without John trying very hard at all, they were dancing, ever so slowly, across the floor.
John opened his eyes, looking up at the man in front of them and he couldn’t help but smile; it felt as if they were the only two people in the world and John was intoxicated by him. A mixture of music, awkwardness, and happiness at the fact that he was actually dancing without fear had turned his brain to mush which showed in his face (Sherlock thought he looked rather gormless as he looked up at him, although it was quite charming at the same time).
“That’s it,” Sherlock breathed, pulling him closer as they moved to and fro with the piano. It was a relatively easy song to dance to – Dustin O’Halloran regularly composed music that would relax his clients and allow them to move with ease without any complicated noises invading their space. Sherlock didn’t like to admit it, but he was quite enjoying having a male client for once, especially one that looked as good as John Watson and who could dance as naturally as he did. “And we’re turning – yes, left leg back – you’re doing wonderfully … a natural, John.”
John flushed at the compliment and suddenly he was very aware of how intimate this situation felt – green eyes drinking him in, soft hands holding each other tenderly, skin on skin, breathing so close to each other’s space he could almost taste Sherlock – and suddenly John felt … guilty? As the song ended, John quickly dropped Sherlock’s hand and took a step back, clearing his throat, arms swinging.
“That was …” what? John thought, feeling confused.
“Perfect,” Sherlock stated simply, moving over to the piano and switching off the music player which was on the floor next to it, plugged into the wall. “You were perfect, John. I don’t know what you were talking about when you said you were shit.”
“Well, I always have been,” John rubbed the back of his neck, moving over to where Sherlock was by the piano. “I’ve never been able to do … that.”
Sherlock was rifling through his bag which was on the floor, pulling out scrunched up paper, some of which had scrawled writing and diagrams of certain dance moves across them, obviously penned from Sherlock’s hand. He then pulled out a flier and handed it to John.
“This is my local chiropractor – she’s very good and will help with your shoulder,” he explained, pointing to the number on the front. “And next time I see you, you better be wearing better shoes than … whatever those are.”
John smiled, looking down at his brown leather loafers. “Hey, I actually like these shoes!” he protested jokingly. “What’s wrong with them?”
Sherlock’s eyes never left John’s and without hesitation, Sherlock simply said with a shrug “They’re obnoxious.” A sly smile played at Sherlock’s lips as he saw John’s face frown in horror.
“Well I’m sure with all of our lessons you’ll get used to me wearing them, Mr. Holmes,” John quipped, smiling back impishly.
There was a beat of silence where the two men observed each other. John knew their lesson was up, but he suddenly wanted to spend more time with this man – he was enjoying himself and knew that when he got home it would be back to boredom, Sheppard’s pie, and Mary’s favourite reality TV show. Sherlock seemed to be feeling the same way as he stood across from John, attempting to come up with something to keep the two of them together – he had no other clients for the evening and he was enjoying flirting with this man.
“I should, uh, go.” John finally muttered. Still, he didn’t move from where he was. What was he doing?
“Yes, well, it was good to finally put a face to the phone calls, Mr. Watson.” Sherlock rushed to grab John’s coat, handing it to him quickly.
“Thanks,” John took his coat. “You can actually just call me John.”
“Yes. John. Okay. Well, I will see you next week, John.”
John nodded, put on his coat, and made his way across the studio to the door and opened it to leave. He stopped when he heard Sherlock rushing over to where he was.
“Wait,” Sherlock spoke urgently.
John turned and Sherlock was in front of him again, hastily pulling on a black, double breasted Belstaff coat – it made him look even taller than he already was. He was carrying his leather messenger bag which had papers stuffed into it, hanging out of the top slightly.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, slightly breathless.
“Hungry?” John asked stupidly. Say yes, you stupid man! He thought, inwardly kicking himself. “Uh, yes-yes I’m hungry. Starving, in fact.”
“Well, I’m finished up for the evening and I know a place a block or so over that makes a delicious spaghetti meatball … if you are interested, that is?” Sherlock’s heart was in his throat.
John knew what Sherlock was asking, but he was still taken aback. “Oh, I’m actually a vegetarian,” he said without thinking.
“Ah, well, I understand. It was probably a bit forward of me to assume you had the time anyway—“
“—no, no, I didn’t mean – do they have vegetarian options?” John quickly cut in, feeling panicked that he was now missing out on his chance.
“Yes!” Sherlock answered a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes, plenty of them!”
Where has the suave, cool guy from earlier gone? John thought, amused at the sight of this polished man feeling slightly anxious.
“Well I’m starving, then.” John finally said.
“Give me a moment to lock up. If you want to head down and hail a cab for us?” Sherlock began rifling through his pockets for his keys.
Heading downstairs, John felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw Mary’s name flashing up, notifying him of a text she had sent just seconds earlier. And suddenly … guilt again?
‘How’s it going? When will you be home?
Hope you haven’t embarrassed yourself too much ;) x’
John hesitated, before clicking reply and contemplating what he was supposed to tell her: “it’s going well, I’m extremely attracted and intrigued by him, and he’s taking me out to dinner”? Jesus Christ, John.
John began to form a reply.
‘It’s going really well—‘
John sucked in a breath before steeling himself and finishing his text.
‘I’ve been called into work for an emergency –so I’m going to have to go and finish up some paperwork and lock up. Will be home late
Don’t wait up.’
John clicked send and quickly put his phone back in his pocket, looking up to find a cab passing by. He just lied to Mary. For the first time in their relationship.
Sherlock came through the door, locked it behind him, coming up beside John.
“No luck?” he asked quietly.
“Sorry?” John’s heart dropped into his stomach, suddenly thinking he was referencing John’s text to his fiancée.
“A cab,” Sherlock gestured to the busy street. “No luck getting one then?”
“Oh,” John let out a breath. “Yeah, no luck so far.”
Sherlock eyed John for a beat, noting the light sheen of sweat across his lip and the jittering movements – he seemed a lot more uptight compared to when they were talking inside. Perhaps he was nervous about them having dinner together, Sherlock surmised with a small smile.
As a cab that Sherlock had hailed halted in front of the pair, John ducked his head to step inside. He felt Sherlock’s warm hand on the small of his back as he guided him into the car. And as guilty as he was feeling about the situation, John wanted him to keep his firm touch on his bones. With a start he realised he wanted more.